“Abner,” he said, “I’ve been used to expressing my mind to you pretty freely, and I’m going to do it now. I don’t know much about the quarrel between you and Charlie, and I don’t want to know. I don’t know which of you is to blame, and I don’t care. But, granted the fault is all Charlie’s, he has, nevertheless, some rights as a father, which you, as a man, are bound to respect. And one of them is to know that his child is desperately ill, and to have the opportunity to come, if he wants to, and look on the boy’s face while there’s life in it. Now, that’s all. If you don’t know where to find him, Martha does.” Abner Pickett stopped in his monotonous walk and looked at the doctor for a full minute from out his haggard eyes. In that minute he went over the entire past, he considered the terrible present, he looked into the dark future. Then he said simply:-- “Tell Martha to send for him.” At midnight Charlie Pickett came home. He entered by the kitchen door, as in the old days, and passed on into the sitting room. His father was there, seated by the fire, gazing steadfastly on the burning coals. “Father, I’ve come.” The old man did not answer him. He did not even lift his eyes from the blazing logs. But whether his silence was due to the old feud and stubbornness, or whether he dared not trust himself to reply, Charlie did not know. “Father,” he said again, “I’ve come--to see Dannie.” Still the old man did not answer, but he motioned with his head toward the inner room, and then turned again to the fire. So Charlie entered the room where his sick child lay. Aunt Martha met him at the threshold and kissed the cheek he bent down to her. Dannie was talking softly in his delirium, in the broken sentences that tell of rapid respiration. He thought he was walking up the gap in the moonlight, with his father, the engineer. “It’s most morning now,” he murmured; “I--must hurry home. Gran’pap--don’t know--I’m out. Yes, it is; it’s a--beautiful curve, beautiful. That’s my--mother’s grave there--you know. Gran’pap wouldn’t--have a stake there--for worlds--an’ worlds. You’re so good--to go--around it. That’s because--you’re my father. Are you--my father? I’m so glad. Don’t hold me--quite so tight--father; it hurts me--here in my side--so. That’s better. Who’s that--pulling you away? Don’t go, father,--don’t go. Oh, don’t go!” “No, Dannie; I’ll not go. I’m here now to stay until you get well.” Dannie opened his eyes wearily, and saw his father’s face bent over him. He did not seem surprised, only gratified. He reached out both his hot hands and grasped the strong cool hand of his father. “I’m so glad--you’re going--to stay,” he said; “I want you--all the time. I lost you--last night--in the snow. I called--and called--but you didn’t--hear me. I’m so glad--you’re here again--so glad--so glad!” With his father’s hand in his he fell asleep, and on his face, for the first time during his illness, there was an expression of supreme content.